


Go bid the waves be still

by agent_orange



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Character(s) of Color, Domestic, F/M, First Time, M/M, Multi, Polyamory, Polyamory Negotiations, Prisoner of War, Reunions, Threesome, Threesome - F/M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-27
Updated: 2015-10-27
Packaged: 2018-04-28 12:20:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,335
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5090510
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/agent_orange/pseuds/agent_orange
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When John pulls off his cap, Alexander sees that oh, his springy curls are shorn down almost to the scalp, and unevenly. But he is blessedly alive, and in the flesh.</p><p>“It’s lovely to finally meet you, Mrs. Hamilton,” John says, ever the gentleman, bowing his head.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Go bid the waves be still

**Author's Note:**

> This diverges from the musical canon and follows some elements of Chernow's book (John Laurens' lack of attendance at Hamilton's wedding). In any case, this is a trashy AU where Laurens is, in fact, present for a consummation (though not the one discussed in the letter). Some facts may be incorrect.
> 
> Not written in rhyme/rap save for a few bad rhymes; several lines cribbed from the musical and actual correspondence. I'm not sorry.

A fortnight in, Alexander has to admit that marriage suits him. The freedom he surrendered only rarely makes itself known, lurks in the corner like a ghost; his liberties are worth the sacrifice.

Though he despises the necessarily evil of marrying into money, though his skin had never flushed redder than when he’d admitted his financial situation to Philip Schuyler, Alexander has already begun to climb above his station. The pleas he’d made to Schuyler, the echoing disappointment of the absence of a certain few souls at his wedding, the bitter cold dawns spent sneaking back into camp from meetings with Eliza, no longer linger. All his plans were worth it. More than worth it, indeed, for what he’s gained (even excluding the aid Schuyler insisted Hamilton use to subsist). His ascension is in progress, and in five days he will ask General Washington, yet again, for a responsibility more vital than managing information.

This domesticity could not be more different from the meager charms of his childhood life (his mother dicing up scrapple to supplement the gruel she oversalted—she would have loved Eliza—and stitching little poppets for him and James to play with).

The fire crackles under Alexander’s ministrations, and he feels a pang of regret about his upcoming departure. He’s relentless to fight, but not to leave Eliza alone in their bed while he dozes in the trench. He will not miss the trimmings of wealth displayed in their home ( _their_ home) so much as her: the way her black eyes flutter and her mouth shifts into a smile when she wakes and sees his face (like she can’t believe this is reality, and neither can he); how she asks about his latest treatises and makes the offhand suggestion; her delicious meals and her _sweetness_. He no longer needs to ruminate on that, nor meet her clandestinely by some isolated tavern or shed.

A spark flits out of the fireplace and lands on the rug, and Alexander scrapes it out with his foot before turning his attention back to his page. His thoughts are coming in fits and starts now, and he supposes he could take a break. He can hear Eliza chopping potatoes for a stew just feet away, rhythmic motions of steel on wood growing quicker.

He enters the kitchen to find the knife cast aside while she uses a peeler to strip the skins off a bundle of carrots, and another idea, one he has to write down right now, strikes him. The noise returns, but he hardly notices it, lost in thought.

Until several minutes later, his Eliza’s voice rings like a bell through the room, equal parts shock and joy as she exclaims, “John Laurens!”

And Alexander’s attention is captivated. He rushes to the door, drinks in the sight of John: dirt smudges dot his coat and his skin, which is not so much olive as it is a sickly pallor. When John pulls off his cap, Alexander sees that _oh_ , his springy curls are shorn down almost to the scalp, and unevenly. But he is blessedly alive, and in the flesh.

“It’s lovely to finally meet you, Mrs. Hamilton,” John says, ever the gentleman, bowing his head. To Alexander, he says, “I did get your letter, Alexander. My deepest regrets for missing your wedding. Lafayette only waxed poetic about how lovely it was for, oh, several pages of one of his letters. And,” he briefly inhales, like he’s been shocked himself, “I hope that invitation still stands.”

Alexander embraces him without another thought, so quickly he barely hears the gasp John makes as his lungs constrict.

His Eliza does not understand the meaning of that, of course, though it seems to glance off her. “You must be starved, Mr. Laurens,” she says, leading him into the house and handing over a thick blanket. Please, join us for dinner. I have a stew on, and some bread baking. You’ll stay here tonight; you can return to Washington’s camp with Alexander next week. No, no, it’s not an imposition,” she insists when he shakes his head. “I’ve been looking forward to meeting you. And hearing about Alexander’s earlier antics.”

She smiles, coy, and Alexander’s heart near breaks he’s so in love with her.

~*~

John is fed more than he’s eaten in months, as generous with his compliments to Eliza as he is with his smiles, with his stories from Pennsylvania that are accompanied by a few grimaces. To Alexander’s delight, they take to each other instantly, as he knew they would. In between long slugs of hot buttered rum, he details his plan to form an all-black battalion, carefully answering Eliza’s queries about slavery, about religion, and Alexander knows she is convinced. She is on firmly on their side, an unofficial abolitionist. Together, they rib Alexander about his plans for a federal bank, a national credit system, his unwavering idealism that’s already gotten him into trouble.

And better still, John takes a genuine interest in Eliza, asking her about her childhood, her family and pastimes. She’s convinced to play piano, fingers a bit slow on the keys as the rum cider pinks her cheeks with an everlasting flush. Her dark hair spills over her shoulders, ruffling slightly as she turns the pages of her music.

After the third discordant chord, she gently closes the piano’s lid. “That’s all for tonight, I’m afraid.”

“That’s a pity,” John says. “I loved hearing you play.”

Alexander fetches more wood for the fire while Eliza brews them all tea. She turns as he returns, arms loaded with chopped logs, and says, “I caught Mr. Laurens here spiking your tea—with Southern whisky, no less. I suppose you ought to use him for kindling as well.” Her eyes glimmer, and Alexander is helpless again.

John pours a splash into Eliza’s tea at her insistence and says, “I think we’re past formalities, if I may...Eliza?” He moves to help Alexander with the fire and this is when Alexander would, under different circumstances, shove a man out the door for conduct unbecoming of a gentleman. Formalities are the structure of society. But John is lucky to be alive and free, and he is no ordinary man. And Alexander is poor in his own right, without the Schuylers, and has shared everything with John, from food to horses, tents and ideas. If Eliza would have it, Alexander would show John how lucky he could be.

But Eliza simply says, “John, then. I’m honored. Come, sit.”

They settle in by the fire, draped in blankets and sipping strong tea, talk of war and politics behind them. It’s only pleasantries, now, as Eliza recounts Alexander’s long-winded toast at their wedding, how he got choked up at the end and barely finished, and how he accidentally smashed a lobster claw instead of cracking it open. She spares no details, not even about how embarrassingly sick he was the next morning from liquor.

“Alexander really would have been thrilled to have you there,” Eliza says. “Though of course, the British did not gift us with their mercy.”

“A once-in-a-lifetime opportunity squandered. Martha Washington really did name her feral tomcat after him,” Laurens slurs, more than a bit tipsy and finally at ease.

Eliza’s laugh is rich and full, not like her usual giggle, likely from the cider. If she is jealous, her eyes do not betray it; she had her share of flirtations with wealthy Albany boys.

“I hadn’t heard,” she says.

“Quite. You, Eliza, are truly something else if you’ve managed to tame him. Truly a shame I was locked away the night you caged him.” John’s face is flushed too, now, a bright strip across his freckled nose and cheeks. He’s certainly close to drunkenness, if not there already.

In this moment, Alexander knows he is caught. Eliza quirks an eyebrow at him, and John’s smile widens of its own volition. Typical—Alexander starts running his mouth before Eliza can get any words out.

“My dearest, Eliza...John was nearly inconsolable in Pennsylvania. Imagine, away from his friends and family. Starvation rations, and the clothes on his back his only fashions. Our young man here left without hope for escape or salvation, and I...wrote him nonstop to help keep his spirits up. I told him all about you, Eliza, how much you mean to me and how I wanted you to meet, and—you are more than enough for me—”

“Oh, on with it, Alexander,” Eliza huffs, but her expression is not unkind. She is efficient to boot; her list of positive qualities grows each day Alexander spends with her.

“—I _may_ have made a tasteless, thoughtless joke—I invited John to witness our final consummation.” Eliza’s face is confused, and he clarifies: “Not just the ceremony. After the ceremony.” Alexander lets his hair loose, shading his face a bit from any judgement.

“Oh. _Oh_ ,” Eliza says. She does not storm out, or shout, or retreat under the blanket. She pauses, considering, and Alexander can nearly see the wheels spinning in her mind. John quietly stands, reaching for his boots, and Eliza reaches out a hand, fingers delicately gripping his wrist.

“I did not intend to impose,” John nearly whispers. “I’ll go.”

“ _No_ ,” Alexander insists, only to hear the same words spill from Eliza’s mouth.

“Stay,” she murmurs. “I am not blind. We both love Alexander, I know. I see how you look at him, and I cannot begrudge your bonds. Though he is small, there is plenty of him to share.”

Alexander puts out the fire; if he looks at either of them, he might burn. Shame and lust mix in his belly, and he is so far out of his depth. War is easy, in relation. And John grips Alexander’s chin, forcing their eyes to meet instead of letting Alexander disappear into the floor.

This is his shot. His wife is more understanding that he’d ever imagined, and his friend is _here_. In the flesh. Alexander still questions reality, though, worries John might disappear at any second. Perhaps because he’s too thin, in Alexander’s opinion, after months of cold isolation. They’ll have to keep feeding him hearty meals so they can return to...more long nights of labor, though this time in Washington’s camp, though not alone, and—

“Alexander,” Eliza says, her tone indicating she’s said his name several times already. “John came all this way for you.”

She moves closer to both of them and Alexander cups her cheek and kisses her, chaste enough for the public eye. She gently shoves him back, toward John, and nods her explicit permission.

This isn’t new (nights are cold in the tents, in the snow and rain) but it’s been so long that their lack of practice shows, and Alexander knocks John’s teeth with his own, running his tongue over them as an apology, finally showing instead of telling John how much he missed this—missed _him_.

When he pulls back, Eliza is breathing more heavily, looking quite satisfied.

“John, you must be tired. Shall we put you to bed?” she suggests.

Nodding, John gulps down the rest of his tea, wincing slightly from the burn of the alcohol, and Alexander does the same. Their trip upstairs is slow, clumsy fingers undoing buttons and tentative kisses traded between all of them. When they reach the landing, Alexander has asked Eliza, “Are you sure?” more times than any one of them can count, and John tugs Alex’s hair, nipping at his neck.

“Eliza knows what she wants, I am confident,” John says. Eliza rewards him with a long kiss, one hand on his chest while John’s hand rests on the small of her back. Watching them the ultimate pleasurable torture for Alexander, and he feels something indescribable catch in his throat.

“It was only before I fell for you, Eliza, never afterwards, I couldn’t have—you have to believe me, I wouldn’t...” Alexander stammers. The two people he loves most in the world, together, with him, is almost unimaginable.

“Show me.” Eliza grins, and _oh_ , his wife is truly wicked. She lights the nighstand’s candles, and kisses both of them again, so long that Alexander loses track of time. John’s cravat is long gone, and she tosses Alexander’s aside. “We have all night.”

That only spurs him on, the frantic energy inside him growing. He cannot get his hands everywhere he wants them, curses the fact that he only has one mouth and two eyes now more than ever. One night is not enough for everything he wishes to do.

He and Eliza have far more layers than John does, and he slides his hand under Eliza’s dress to her thigh, hitching it up, while John fumbles with the stays of her corset. She whimpers a bit, and the sound still nearly undoes him. _Focus_.

John sheds his own clothes quickly, down to his smallclothes, and then turns to Eliza, drinking in the sight of her.

“How did this tomcat marry someone as beautiful as you?” he asks, making Eliza laugh again.

“Flattery will get you everywhere,” she replies, helping Alexander out of his vest and shirt. John frees him from his pants, and oh, he stops to take in the sight of them again.

John unceremoniously falls onto the bed while trying to remove his own socks, and Alexander seizes the opportunity, dropping to his knees and clutching John’s hips, pulling the remaining material down to the floor. He takes a breath, licks his lips, and takes John into his mouth, like he’s done so many times before. This time, though, he can hear Eliza and John kissing above him, making soft little sounds.

He’s missed this so much and failed to fully realize it—the hard, familiar weight of John’s cock in his mouth and John’s fingers carding through Alexander’s long hair. Alexander has to remove a hand from John’s hip and dig the heel of it, hard, against his own groin, to keep from shooting off too early.

Alexander looks up and John’s mouth is on Eliza’s neck now, teasing the veins there and nibbling her earlobe, just how she likes it. Alexander hums and John moans, loud, hips involuntarily shoving up. Practiced, Alexander pulls in a breath through his nose, opens his throat more, lets John take and take. Briefly, he reaches up to stroke Eliza’s hand and clasp it, another silent _thank you_ , before removing it and pressing the pads of two fingers behind John’s testicles.

John is close, Alexander knows (he can feel it in his mouth and his gut). After so long trapped with just his own hand, he cannot hold out much longer, and Alexander doesn’t care a whit. He redoubles his efforts, twisting his tongue across John’s length.

John groans, long and loud, and breaks away from Eliza, gasping for breath like he’s been knocked over. Alexander doesn’t stop, but pulls back slightly and sucks hard, swallowing down John’s release without a second thought. Wartime habit—they cannot let a mess giving them away, and the stains are unsightly.

“Alexander Hamilton,” John says once he’s caught his breath. Then: “Eliza. God. You two.”

“My reputation precedes me all the way to Pennsylvania,” he jokes, and he can feel Eliza smirking with a roll of her eyes.

“Yes, all the way to Albany, too,” she adds. “Now, show John you’re not the type to rest on your laurels after just one success.”

More than happy to comply, Alexander searches for something to clear his mouth, finding a few drops of whisky in the flask in John’s trousers pocket. Then he rises up, feels the joints in his knees and hips crack, as he joins them on the bed, one of Eliza’s slim legs wrapping around his waist. John’s fingers find Alexander’s and Alexander laces them together, pulling him next to them so they can all kiss. Eliza makes happy noises of encouragement when Alexander kisses John again, even moreso when he bites below John’s collarbone—he knows it’s too hard, overly aggressive, that he cannot act that way with Eliza but he’s missed John so much it feels like the use of his right hand was absent for months and only just returned.

Eliza wriggles out from underneath him to kiss the blooming mark there, soothing it with her tongue and her hand pressed against his too-visible ribs. He yelps, though not in pain, and glances back at Alexander before pressing his own hand to Eliza’s thigh.

Her corset constricts her, Alexander knows, and murmurs _stop_ so he and Eliza can divest themselves of the rest of their garments. “No, Laurens, you needn’t stop _that_ ,” he clarifies.

Wordlessly, Eliza takes one of Alexander’s hands and one of John’s, settling herself in between them on the bed. Alexander feels the warmth radiating from their bodies and leans in closer, his nose indelicately bumping Eliza’s before a kiss. He moves his attentions down to her pert breasts and teases one nipple, then the other, delighting in her little gasps.

Suddenly, her back arches into a tight-strung bow and her eyes close abruptly. He has never seen her quite this way, never been so removed from the proceedings to see how her nails bite white half-moons into her palms as two of John’s fingers tease her, slowly burying themselves in her warmth. She is beautiful; they are almost too beautiful to look at without their brightness blinding him.

“Were you ever—with him like this?” she grits out. Neither of them answer. Once again, Alexander’s words are caught in his throat.

“John. I want to know. Tell me...how he felt.” Eliza is nearly gasping now, great heaving breaths that fill her chest. Alexander gently strokes her back, her hair, her sides, as John finds that spot inside of her, and he very nearly cannot stand it. The imminence of his own release buzzes through his blood.

“Yes,” John admits easily as Alexander’s hand displaces his own, replaces his hand with his cock. He stays on his side so Eliza needn’t move much, and John presses himself against her back, gripping Alexander’s shoulder. John’s words are strained now as Eliza rocks back into him. “He’s such a—ah, a demanding little sneak, insults me to get what he wants. But he always felt incredible, so hot around me. Greedy and—”

Without thinking, Alexander says, “That’s—oh, it’s true,” pushing deeper into Eliza as he recalls late nights and early dawns in slipshod tents, John carefully pushing into him, spurred on by Alexander’s taunts about John’s prowess and skills.

Here, he does not need to muffle his noises; Eliza is a dream separate from the nightmarish reality of war. Both of their names spill out of his mouth amidst pleas and curses and encouragements. John’s hand knocks into Alexander’s hip, steadily working Eliza into a frenzy as Alexander’s pace increases. He is nearly gone now, though not so far that he does not realize the added benefit of John’s presence.

Alexander works his own hand in between their bodies, touching John’s hand and with a few more firm strokes on Eliza’s clitoris, she is shaking apart in their arms, the noises she lets out increasing in pitch. He works her through it, keeping his thrusts steady, and only then does he allow his own release to sweep over him. Bursts of light and dark appear behind his eyelids as he half-wonders if this is when death comes for him.

He is so parched, but damp with sweat; he murmurs both of their names before fetching some water and cloths with which to wipe themselves off. Upon his return, Eliza and John are both nearly asleep in each other's arms. Alexander’s heart is fit to burst, and he cleans them off the best he can before he slips a banyan over his head and sits down in a chair to write.

The words near fly out of his mind and onto the page.


End file.
